


Not That Sneaky

by ryeloza



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 22:56:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13258356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryeloza/pseuds/ryeloza
Summary: This was originally a five-times fic, and then I wrote a sequel. So now I present: eight times Ben and Leslie get caught/interrupted during sex.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> One of my first Parks fics. Originally posted on livejournal; it finally made its way here.

"And you say I'm not sneaky." Leslie nips at the skin above Ben's hip and raises her eyes to his with a look more mischievous than scolding; in fact, if he didn't know any better, he'd say that she almost looks delighted, which, in any rational world, couldn't possibly be the case. Not when they were caught today. By Ron. In possibly the most humiliating circumstances known to man. There is no way she can find anything amusing about that.  
  
Leslie trails her lips haphazardly across his stomach and up his chest, and then lifts her head to smile at him, remaining just out of reach of his kiss. "In fact," she continues--and, yeah, he really can't deny that her blue eyes are positively dancing with mirth, and how is she not as horrified by this as he is?--"you've said that to me many, many times, Benjamin. And I think now you really have to admit that you're wrong and I'm right."  
  
"Leslie, I think if we learned anything today, it's that we're both terrible at being sneaky."  
  
A flash of indignation crosses Leslie's face as she lifts herself further from him, shaking her blonde curls back from her face in impatient frustration. It's a look he's come to know well, one he saw every time he brushed aside one of her demands last summer and one that, just recently, he's seen in much more pleasurable circumstances: specifically, Leslie writhing on her bed and demanding he do exactly what she wants when she wants it (a point he's sometimes willing to concede, sometimes eager to ignore). In any case, it's inherently Leslie and undeniably sexy. He moves a hand to her thigh and runs his thumb back and forth over her soft skin, tracing a beauty mark that he'd like nothing better than to press his lips to at this moment.  
  
Leslie, in all her beautiful single-mindedness, does not manage to read his mind, though. "I have to disagree," she says, as though they're in a discourse at work rather than lying in bed in nothing but their underwear. "You're the one who keeps giving away our secret."  
  
Ben runs his hand down to her knee and traces the scar there. Briefly, he wonders how she got it, feels that longing again to know all of her, inside and out, but he bites back the urge to ask. Not now. Not when the future stretches out in front of him, and the thought of not being with Leslie becomes more unfathomable every day.  
  
Besides, she'd only say he's changing the subject.  
  
"You told Ann." He doesn't know why he's belaboring this when Leslie's straddling him mostly naked.  
  
"There are no secrets with Ann." Ben barely has time to imagine how much detail that entails before Leslie leans back, grinding her pelvis against his cock and grinning when he groans. "But because of you, we're coming dangerously close to not having any secrets with Ron either."

"Point made," Ben agrees, mostly because it is beyond disturbing that Ron knows anything about their sex life, let alone their penchant for political role play. "But Les, you can't deny that he wasn't already suspicious. If we don't get better at sneaking around--"  
  
"I know." Leslie bites her lip, considering the threat that underlies all of this but never seems as scary when they're hidden away from the rest of the world. "I just like you and your terrible face so much. It's kind of hard to hide, I guess."  
  
"I know." And he does. More than anything, he wants to hold her hand or wrap an arm around her waist or kiss her whenever he wants and just let everyone know that he and Leslie are together and happy and he's maybe well on his way to falling in love with her.  
  
"We'll figure this out, right? It's not going to be like this forever."  
  
"No, it's not. We'll figure it out."  
  
Leslie leans over him again, her hair brushing over his shoulders as she moves in for a kiss. "Just think," she whispers, her lips ghosting over his jaw as he moves his hands to the clasp of her bra, "someday we won't have to be sneaky anymore. And we'll never have to worry about getting caught."  
  
Caught on that someday, on that vague promise of a future with Leslie, Ben captures her mouth again and loses himself in her.  
  
He never once considers how utterly wrong Leslie will turn out to be.  



	2. April (and Andy)

"Honey?"  
  
April squirms out from under Ben's bed, but doesn't glance at Andy as she crosses the room and begins to open the dresser drawers. She doesn't need to look at her husband to know that he's lingering in the doorway, torn between his curiosity and his unwarranted respect of Ben's privacy ever since they made that weird pact on Halloween. As if Ben can dictate that his room is off-limits.  
  
"Babe, we promised we wouldn't go into Ben's room--"  
  
"You promised," clarifies April. She finds Ben's underwear drawer, but can't quite bring herself to touch it. "Besides," she lies, "that promise only counts if Ben's actually here."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes. Get in here and help me."  
  
Andy hesitates, she can tell he doesn't really believe her, but curiosity is definitely winning out, and then he ducks down and stealthily rolls into the room. "What are we doing?" he asks, popping up next to her and immediately pawing through the neatly stacked boxers. "Did Ben steal something? Oh--did he take your underwear?"  
  
"What? No, Andy, we're here to steal from him."  
  
"Oh. Really? 'Cause I think that's what Ben meant when he asked us to respect his space."  
  
April rolls her eyes. Ben can demand respect all he wants, but he should know better than to expect to receive it. Especially when he does things like promise to bring home food and then doesn't even bother to come home. Especially when, in the whole time she has lived with Ben, he only stayed out all night when he was with Leslie, and he and Leslie have obviously broken up. And if he's not with her, then where the hell has he been all night?  
  
Sad Ben is depressing enough. She doesn't think she can deal with sad Leslie, too. And Leslie is definitely going to be sad if Ben's out fucking someone else.  
  
So the whole respect thing is really overrated.  
  
"What are we looking for anyway?"  
  
"His bubble bath," says April. "He's been hiding it ever since I dumped it out all over his clean laundry that one time."  
  
"He has been spending a lot of time in the bath lately."  
  
"See. We're helping."  
  
Andy accepts this unconditionally, and his enthusiasm skyrockets. He heads to the closet and beings rummaging around, leaving April to sort through the rest of the dresser drawers. She's digging through an astonishingly large collection of plaid pajama pants when she hears the front door open, and yeah, that is definitely Ben's voice and he is definitely not alone. Without thinking, she slams the drawer shut, hurries to the closet and steps inside, pushing Andy back and shutting the door behind them.  
  
"Babe?"  
  
"Shh!"  
  
Ben's laughing--April can't remember the last time she heard him laugh--but she barely has time to process this before the bedroom door swings open and Ben backs into the room, his arms wrapped around someone, and damn, that's Leslie.  
  
Okay. So apparently that's happening again. Not that she's going to admit that she's relieved. Or happy. Or anything.

Behind her, Andy's eyes go wide and he gasps, and April lightly presses her hand over his mouth. The slats in the closet door offer limited visibility, but it's enough that April can make out Ben's and Leslie's equally large and ridiculous grins as they enter the room.  
  
Leslie sits down on the bed, resting her weight on her hands as Ben leans down to press a kiss to the side of her mouth. "I'll just grab some clothes and we can get out of here," Ben mumbles. He presses his lips to Leslie's a few more times and then stands up to move to his dresser. She and Andy are definitely a minute away from getting caught, and April grins wickedly, already anticipating the way Ben is going to scream when he finds them hiding in the closet.  
  
"Honey." Andy's lips tickle her palm and she moves her hand from his mouth. "I found the bubble bath!"  
  
April takes it and tucks the bottle into Andy's pocket. This is working out even better than she expected.  
  
"You know," Leslie says, drawing April's attention back to what's happening beyond the closet door, "I'm a little disappointed April and Andy aren't here."  
  
"Well, it's certainly odd, given that it's before noon on a Saturday."  
  
"I just really want to tell everyone. No more sneaking around, no more secrets..." Ben turns to face her again, an almost sickeningly sweet look on his face--way worse than the looks he already gives Leslie in public. "I finally get to tell the whole world that I have the best boyfriend in the universe--"  
  
Ben cuts her off with another kiss, this one longer and deeper than before. His hand moves to frame Leslie's face, brushing aside her curls, and Leslie hums warmly. "You know," Ben says, quietly enough that April has to strain to hear him over Andy's breathing, "there are some advantages to being alone here."  
  
"Are there?"  
  
"Mmm-hmm." Ben pushes her back into the bed and continues to press insistent kisses against Leslie's lips. His hand skates up Leslie's side, dragging her shirt up as he goes, and it's only then that April is shaken enough to realize what's actually about to happen. For some reason, it's taking an unnaturally long time for the dots to connect, to comprehend that Ben and Leslie, two people whose sexuality has been limited to moony, longing looks around the office, are about to have sex. And yeah, maybe it was obvious to anyone with eyes that they were sneaking around last spring, but the idea of Ben and Leslie having sex and the reality of it are two extremely different things.  
  
But she and Andy are going to witness the live show unless they do something now.

Ben's kissing a path up Leslie's stomach to her breasts as Leslie tugs her sweater off and tosses it across the room. Her hands land in his hair, tugging until he works his way back to her mouth. Leslie toes off her shoes and kicks them over the side of the bed, and then she sighs. Everything about them is unhurried; each kiss is long and lingering, each touch soft and slow. And still, there is something passionate, almost electric, between them, reaching out and enveloping the room and making it impossible to look away. Without thinking, April moves imperceptibly closer to the door and finds herself straining to make out the more minute details.  
  
Leslie whimpers as Ben pulls away, grazing his nose against hers and over her cheek before dropping his forehead to hers. "I want to kiss you," he murmurs against Leslie's skin, a fragment of thought kissed by powerful adoration; the words, more innocuous than their actions, make April blush. "Every inch of you...Every spot I missed when we weren't together..."  
  
Leslie lifts her hands to Ben's cheeks and runs her thumbs over his skin. They're staring at one another so nakedly that it physically hurts to watch, but April can't look away. She expects Leslie to say something, to return the sentiment, to wallow in Ben's obvious longing for her. Instead, she just stares at him and then slowly, brazenly grinds her pelvis against Ben's thigh.  
  
"Fuck," Ben hisses, and suddenly, everything seems to speed up. Ben tugs his shirt off and Leslie begins to tear at his pants, helping him wriggle them down until he can kick them off. Immediately, he buries his face in Leslie's breasts, nudging the cup of her bra out of the way and leaving Leslie to actually remove the garment. It hits the closet door as Leslie's throws it aside, and April jolts, torn from her reverie.  
  
This is ridiculous. Ridiculous that Ben is licking and kissing and nipping at Leslie's breasts like a man unhinged. Ridiculous that Leslie is panting and gasping and moaning as her back arches off of the bed. Ridiculous that this is Ben and Leslie, who are pretty much the antithesis of anyone's idea of hot sex, and yet April has to physically ball her hands into fists to keep from rubbing her clit. Unconsciously, she leans back against Andy and feels his hand settle on her hip, and she wonders what would happen if she dragged his hand forward, forced him to put pressure right where she needs it the most.  
  
"Babe," Andy hisses, and April nods, anticipating that he feels this--whatever this feeling is--too. She wants him to rip open her pants, to work his hand into her underwear the way Ben is working his hand into Leslie's, his fingers flexing as Leslie reaches down to grip his ass. She fumbles for Andy's hand, ready to just give in, even if she can't bring herself to ask for it, when Andy continues, "Don't freak out, but there's a spider in your hair--"  
  
"Oh my god!" April shrieks, batting at her hair, shaking her head wildly. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" She throws open the closet door and stumbles out, still shrieking (vaguely hearing but not really registering Leslie's scream and Ben's violent cursing) and promptly tripping over Leslie's abandoned sneakers. She ungracefully falls onto the bed, still swatting at her hair, barely aware that she's practically on top of Leslie and Ben until her arm brushes over Ben's hard on and--"Oh my god!" she groans, horrified in an entirely different way. Ben jerks away from her as though she's burned him--yeah, like he's the one who's disgusted--and April rolls off of the bed, scrambling backward until she runs into Andy's legs.  
  
"What the hell! What the hell are you doing in my closet?"  
  
April barely hears him. "Did I get it? Andy! Andy! Is it dead? Did I get it?"  
  
"I smushed it," says Andy, a proud note in his voice that would be comical to anyone else in the world. For April, the gratitude and relief she feels is instantaneous.  
  
And, she notes, glancing back at the bed, short-lived.

Ben's face is an ambivalent mix of anger, disgust and fear, which would be hilarious under any other circumstances. Leslie looks shocked, but slightly more amused; she's moved to sit cross-legged on the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest and running a soothing hand over Ben's shoulder. Like he's the one who's traumatized.  
  
God.  
  
"April. Andy," Ben says in that stupidly condescending, pragmatic way he has. "Would you like to explain what the fuck you were doing in my closet?"  
  
"It was an accident."  
  
"An accident?" Ben's eyebrows are doing that stupid thing they do when he's being sarcastic; Andy, of course, has no idea.  
  
"Yeah. Dude, we were not expecting you to walk in, let alone walk in with Leslie and start doing that. Nice job, by the way. I told you it would happen!" Andy holds out his palm for a high five, but when Ben doesn't return the gesture, he scratches the back of his head and shifts his weight awkwardly. Ben's still glaring, and, for the first time in her life, April doesn't find the uncomfortable silence comforting. In fact, she kind of wishes the ground would open up and swallow her, because she's pretty sure she's still flushed and her panties are soaked and it feels patently obvious that she was getting off on Ben and Leslie doing sex stuff, which is just...  
  
No.  
  
Unsurprisingly, Leslie is the one who sidesteps the tension. And god, only Leslie would fucking ignore that she just got caught in the middle of sex. Or caught about to have sex. Whatever. "You know, April, I'm sure Ann would be happy to help with your arachnophob--"  
  
"No."  
  
Before Leslie can insist--or further imply that anyone else will hear about this ever--April gets to her feet and stomps out of the room. She's pretty sure she's going to have to shower or shave her head or maybe both.  
  
And somehow, she thinks, slamming her bedroom door shut and working her hand down her pants, groaning as her fingers finally find her clit, she's going to have to find a chance to spy on them again.


	3. Chris

It isn't long after he finds out about Ben and Leslie's relationship that Chris decides he needs to see them have sex.

Perhaps that comes off wrong.  
  
To clarify: it’s not that Chris gets off on watching. He's not a voyeur. He's not seeking a high, some new, exciting type of arousal that can only be found in darkened corners. Quite the contrary. If anything, the desire to watch is born of innate curiosity about the human body; the chance to learn; the opportunity to witness the physical act of lovemaking, which is possibly Chris’ favorite expression of the most beautiful emotion in the universe.  
  
It's not exactly a desire he's had often before, to be honest. Sure, there has been occasion in the past, opportunities that Chris has taken advantage of, but this need to seek out the other party is entirely new. It takes him by surprise, at first. But, like all of his best ideas, the brilliance of it settles in and blossoms into something he cannot ignore. Were he to sit down and explain, he's sure everyone would agree that seeing Ben and Leslie together truly is a necessity.  
  
To begin, it is born somewhat of ignorance. A snowballing effect as Ben and Leslie's relationship first came to light, and Chris slowly realized that he was the only one who didn't have a sense of what was happening. He's not blind, of course. On paper it makes sense. Adding the sum parts of Ben’s and Leslie’s personalities and their capabilities of working as a team means that their compatibility is solid. And they are both fantastic people—two of his favorite people, in fact. But the truth remains that he has known Ben Wyatt for over a decade now, and Chris truly believed he would never risk everything for love. He would never break a rule, let alone one so serious and important as to cost him his job. And Leslie, from what Chris knows, is the same. So, if he’s completely honest, he’s still not entirely sure he comprehends Ben and Leslie's relationship.  
  
Truthfully, it’s a thought that has lingered for months now. Born in the moment he walked into his office and found Ben and Leslie, hands clasped palm-to-palm as though diving into some abyss together. It had pulled his focus, even as every nerve in his body tensed because he knew, even in that moment, that he was going to lose something of great importance. After they left, over the next few days as he prepared for the trial, it was that image of them holding hands that stayed with him: Ben’s thumb swiping over the back of Leslie’s hand; Leslie’s knuckles white, relaying her anxiety even as she never wavered; the contrast between their hands, Leslie’s petite and pale and strong, and Ben’s large and long, somehow fitting together seamlessly.  
  
Through the trial, through Ben’s painful resignation, through every excruciating moment of those first few days without Ben—stern, reliable Ben, who scarcely took a sick day in all the time Chris has known him—that image is what remains.  
  
It’s difficult, faced with these contradictions, this lack of understanding, to let go of his desire to know (know why and how this happened). In the past two months, he’s found himself cataloging their physical interactions. Each chaste kiss, each innocuous touch. It’s not enough to add up to total comprehension and, inexplicably, none of it has resonated like that first glimpse of them holding hands. It’s too contained, too deliberately ingenuous and conscious of the public eye. Chris approves, celebrates their discretion in the face of such an outcry of shame, but he longs to see them together uninhibited. That day in the office, the desperate truth of that act of holding hands, that must be Leslie and Ben at heart, what everyone else saw for so long, but Chris remained blind to. In the past few weeks, his desire to find out for sure has begun to border on fanatical, and Chris won’t deny himself the opportunity now that it presents itself.

They’re at The Bulge to celebrate Leslie’s birthday. He’s alone since the magnificent Millicent Gergich is working (her dedication to toil away on a Saturday evening is just one of the many reasons Chris loves her). And it really has turned out for the best because Leslie is quite intoxicated—apparently, for whatever delightful reason, she drinks for free—and in the highest spirits. And while Ben is not nearly so inebriated, it’s clear his inhibitions are lowered because he doesn’t protest when Leslie pulls him onto the dance floor.  
  
Chris is acutely conscious of them all night. Can feel them lingering in the periphery of the room even when his attention isn’t focused on them. They're touching more openly than usual. Sloppy kisses punctuated by a tongue swiping against a lip. Hands slipping below the waistband of Ben's pants, fingertips pulling him closer. Deliberate, and hardly subtle, swipes of his fingers over her breasts. It's the most sexuality Chris has ever seen from them in public, and he feels down to his bones that tonight is the night. This isn't the soft cuddling of New Year's, the chaste hugs and kisses that mark their comings and goings. The difference is marked, the room literally charged with the energy between them, and Chris knows. When they finally slip away, disappear into the shadows like phantoms, Chris almost bursts out of his own skin in anticipation. His palms sweat, his heart-rate increases, his whole body longs to follow, but he forces himself to stay put.  
  
After all, it would be rude to abandon the charming Ann Perkins, at least without a good excuse.  
  
It’s nearly ten minutes before the opportunity presents itself. Ann is an unfocused drunk, and when Tom and Jean-Ralphio—whose dancing is superbly synchronized—bop over to them, Ann’s attention sways like a small child’s. Tom takes her hand and twirls her, her drink spilling over Chris’ shoes, and Ann laughs loudly, swept away in a largely sloppy group dance.  
  
Everyone is too drunk to notice Chris disappear into the shadows as well. Too drunk to question anyone’s whereabouts. Too drunk to care.  
  
It is, literally, the most exquisite opportunity.  
  
It doesn’t take him long to find them. Back where the music is merely a thumping background to such depraved acts, in the dimly lit corridors of a hallway off limits, Chris flits like a moth to the flame. It’s clear Ben and Leslie have foregone caution: the door to the supply room is open well enough to easily see inside, and Chris sidles up with the thought that alcohol truly does destroy the propriety of even the most prudent individuals.  
  
Chris peers into the room carefully, but his suspicion that Leslie and Ben will be too far gone to notice anything proves correct. Leslie is perched on the top of a four-tiered stepladder, gripping the front of Ben's shirt with both hands. One long, milky leg is wrapped around Ben, and her foot rubs against his calf. The action is somewhat stilted, but Chris zeroes in on the detail: the way the arch of Leslie's foot hugs Ben's calf; the point of her toe offering the tiniest hint of tension; the fiery orange color of her nail polish juxtaposed against the muted brown of Ben's pants. This is what he seeks--these gestures and movements that will never be seen in public; Ben and Leslie explained through touch. It's an intoxicating, addicting craving, and tonight, Chris feels like a glutton.

He follows the line of Leslie's leg, taking in how her knee grazes Ben's ass, how her thigh presses against Ben's hip, and then he pauses at Ben's hand. His palm lingers against Leslie's thigh, his thumb kneading at her skin. With each pass, he inches almost imperceptibly up her leg. It's teasing, almost torturous, watching him move: the slowness of it; the way he comes a fingertip away from her underwear before running his hand to her inner thigh. He tugs with the forceful command of authority that Chris has been dependent on for so long, pulling Leslie's leg away from his body and spreading her wide. It exposes her center, and Chris can see that her panties are damp, the purple fabric darker where Ben has now exposed her body. "Fuck," Ben hisses, low and unhinged, and without warning, he drops to his knees in front of Leslie and licks right over that spot.  
  
Instantly, Leslie's hands spring to life, one flying back and gripping the shelf behind her, steadying her precarious position, the other landing in Ben's hair and pulling roughly. Ben takes the encouragement and somehow presses himself closer to her, mouthing at her panties as his hands go to her ass and hold her to him, his forearms continuing to brace her legs. With effort, Chris tears his eyes from Ben to watch Leslie--the delicate arch of her back, her chest heaving, her head thrown back and neck exposed. She seems desperate to move: her hips roll as much as they can in Ben's grip; her legs are tense; she's biting her lip as her head lolls, intensely lost in the feeling. Ben is no better, almost ravaging her, his fingers now pulling roughly at her underwear in an effort to remove them. Their lack of control is obvious and strangely beautiful, so unlike anything Chris has ever seen before. They've lost reason, rationality, any semblance of propriety. They are completely consumed by one another, and Chris realizes that this is it. This is that connection he's been focused on recapturing since that day in his office.  
  
Ben and Leslie, fitting together perfectly, and risking everything because they know it's too rare a connection to pass by.  
  
It's too rare.  
  
It is then, with sudden, startling clarity, that Chris understands the inevitability of this. Of them. Of the idea that their meeting was a collision of stars, and the burning fire that resulted could never be stopped. He now sees what everyone else has been aware of for so long: that the risk had nothing to do with their jobs or reputations--the risk was letting work keep them apart and believing that they might ever find with someone else what they have together.  
  
And for some reason Chris can't fathom, it almost hurts more to know.  
  
To know. The whole reason he set out on this expedition to begin with.  
  
He should look away. He should melt back into the shadows and leave them alone because this was about understanding--nothing more. But for whatever reason, Chris can't tear his eyes from them. Ben has removed Leslie's underwear, and now works his fingers over her folds, thumb brushing against her clit with every few passes. The movement makes Leslie moan and her hips buck, and Ben grins, pressing a kiss against her thigh. "Please," she whimpers, and yes, Chris thinks, please don't stop.  
  
Don't ever stop.  
  
From out in the club, there is a loud burst of laughter and the curtain that blocks this hallway wavers and is then pulled back, exposing the world Chris left behind. It literally makes him jump, and he takes a large step back, as if it will account for his actions. Two very drunk, very amused men stumble toward him. "Are the bathrooms back here?" one of them asks loudly. Chris gives Ben and Leslie one last, hopeful glance, but the disturbance has broken the spell; Leslie stands, somewhat unsteadily, trying to smooth her skirt down, and Ben, looking quite pained, kisses her temple and mumbles something into her ear. Leslie nods, and Chris realizes he's a heartbeat away from discovery.  
  
"Gentlemen!" he says, hurrying toward his new drunken friends and throwing an arm around each of their shoulders. "Allow me. I would be absolutely thrilled to direct you to the bathroom!"  



	4. Dave

  
Given everything that's happened already, Dave really doesn't think the night can get any worse. It's a sad consolation given that his plan for the rest of the evening is to go back to his buddy's house, drink a beer and maybe get a few hours of sleep before he has to head to the airport. Like most silver linings, it's not ideal, but at least it's something positive to focus on. _You've reached the low point tonight, buddy; can't screw things up any worse than you already have._  
  
It's a pep talk that doesn't even last the entire walk to his rental car.  
  
A more unobservant person wouldn't have even noticed. On a dark, cloudy night in a parking lot that isn't properly lit, anyone else would have walked by, luckily oblivious. But Dave isn't unobservant or oblivious and that is definitely Leslie's car with the windows kind of fogged up, ever so slightly rocking (though, thank goodness, not with any kind of rhythm or regularity). He rubs his forehead and sighs because jeez, what the hell is Leslie thinking doing this at all, let alone at a place where practically the whole police force lies in wait? It's foolish and impulsive and crazy and passionate, pretty much a summary of why he fell for Leslie in the first place, and so, yeah, maybe it does make sense.  
  
But it also...well, it also fucking sucks, if Dave's completely honest. Because of course he's the one to notice. And of course he's not just going to walk away and leave her like bait for a trap. He still cares too much to consciously let anything bad happen to her.  
  
He'd like to, though. Man, he'd really like to just be the guy who can walk away right now.  
  
It takes a minute to steel his resolve. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and takes a couple of deep breaths, letting the cold winter air bite his lungs. Tries--and fails--to think of this as any of the dozens of couples he's interrupted in all of his years of being a cop. Reminds himself that on a long list of shit he's messed up tonight, including how Leslie remembers him, this isn't even going to make the top ten. It won't even hurt the worst.  
  
He walks toward the car briskly, faking an authority he doesn't actually feel. His footsteps seem unnaturally loud against the asphalt, and on some level, he almost expects Leslie to hear him coming, pop her head out the window, and make up some terrible lie about looking for a contact lens. That's not what happens, though. Instead, he gets within a few feet of the car and freezes.  
  
He can see her.

It shouldn't be possible, given that the windows aren't only kind of steamy but also bitten by frost, but it's not like the universe has thrown him one bone tonight. Why start now? And it's worse, so much worse than he thought it would be, that he wants to turn around and run.  
  
Leslie is a tiny woman. It's easy to forget sometimes because her personality is huge, but for Dave, the one place it was always obvious was the bedroom. He loved being with her--loved running his hands over her soft skin, loved kissing her, loved being inside of her--but every time they were together, he also felt overwhelmed by how small she was. At times his body felt cumbersome next to hers. He always felt compelled to be as gentle as possible. It just...It was always jarring to see her that way. Vulnerable, he used to think, though he never said it because Leslie would hate it, even if he didn't.  
  
To tell the truth, he kind of liked the idea of taking care of her.  
  
And, as he's seeing at this moment, there are definitely some other advantages to her size.  
  
Somehow, Leslie has maneuvered herself onto the floor of the back seat so she's kneeling in front of Ben, and you'd have to be dumb as rocks not to realize what's going on. Ben leans back against the seat with his legs spread wide, and his hands are tangled in Leslie's hair, obstructing, but not eliminating Dave's view of what Leslie's doing.  
  
What Leslie is doing with vigorous enthusiasm, to be accurate.  
  
He shouldn't be watching this. Absolutely should not...And, he really, really shouldn't be remembering how he felt when Leslie used to do that to him. But it's easier than it should be, easier than it has been, after spending the whole night around her and smelling her perfume and hearing her voice and now, fuck, now seeing her doing that.  
  
Yeah. It's way too easy to imagine himself in Ben's place.  
  
She pulls her mouth back from the base of his cock and pumps him with her hand, leaving her lips wrapped tightly around the tip. Her tongue is soft and strong as it runs around the ridge, teasing before it presses to the underside of the head with a pressure that makes his hips buck involuntarily. She grins against him, pleased with herself, and lets him go with a soft kiss to the tip of his cock. "Does that feel good?" she asks coyly, brushing his shaft against her cheek and then back to her lips. Without giving him time to do more than groan, she's pulls him up against his stomach and licks the underside from base to tip. One of her hands digs into his thigh, a strange mix of pleasure and pain, and she continues to kiss and lick every inch of his cock. He moans, begins to beg because every sensation is just too much, and then she leans down and puts her lips against his balls, sucking one and then the other into her mouth, her other hand now stroking him harder and faster. And he knows, he knows he's going to cum, and she knows it too, so she pulls back and takes his cock back into her mouth, pressing down all the way to the base so the tip slides past that soft palate at the back of her throat, her tongue still working slightly against him, and it's all too much...He gives in, shooting into her mouth—

Except that's not what's happening. Not at all. Leslie's still moving her mouth up and down, her hand playing with his balls, and then without warning, Ben pulls her off of him almost roughly, grips her arms and hoists her off of the floor into his lap. It's not entirely graceful, given the confined space, but neither of them seems to care. Leslie is practically devouring him with her kiss, rubbing herself against his erection and gripping his hair tightly. Ben's hands are groping her--thighs, breasts, ass--rubbing and stroking and pinching--and Leslie looks overwhelmed in the best way. He's never seen her so debauched, so thoroughly turned on and desperate; it's beautiful, stunning, gorgeous...but it's also nothing he remembers.  
  
She reaches down to the pull her skirt up around waist, and Dave suddenly comes to his senses.  
  
He can't...He can't watch anymore.  
  
Hastily averting his eyes, Dave taps on the window and waits for Leslie to compose herself. The moon is out now, peering through the black clouds like a ghost, but Dave wishes it was raining again. A torrential downpour that would have everyone running to their cars, including him, and he could take back this terrible punctuation to the end of this terrible night.  
  
The window rolls down and Leslie pops her head out, shaking her hair out of her face with affected casualness. "Hey Dave, what's up?"  
  
God, for once he just wishes Leslie wouldn't be so damn...Leslie.  
  
"Leslie," he says, trying desperately to ignore how she looks in the moonlight. He fails, of course, because her hair is wild and her eyes are bright and hazy with lust and her face and neck are flushed, a tinge of pink that he knows runs down her chest as well, and it's all too much. "It's pretty obvious, uh, well...You know you shouldn't...do that...here...right?"  
  
_Do what here?_ he practically hears her voice ringing in his ears, and please, he wants to beg her, don't make me say it. But she surprises him, just as she's always surprises him, by biting her lip and dropping her eyes the tiniest bit. "Yes...You...You're right...We should really...really go home."  
  
Dave nods and taps his fingers against the roof of the car, still not able to look away from her even though he can actually feel his chest aching. It hurts worse now than it did before--worse than it did when he left, really--because this is the end, truly the end, of something he never knew he lost. She really is Ben's now, at least as much as she can be, seeing that she gives her heart to the world.  
  
"I guess..." he stutters, not quite sure how to end this, "I guess maybe I'll see you around sometime, Leslie."  
  
"Yeah. I'll definitely see you around."  
  
She smiles, and his heart breaks.  



	5. Jerry

  
If you asked Jerry later, he'd swear up and down that everything seemed normal. The TV is on low in the background, just like it always is. The air smells mostly like coffee and a bit like burnt plastic (not unusual, given that Andy lives here). With Jerry's dedicated envelope stuffing, productivity hangs in the atmosphere, just as it always does when Leslie's in the vicinity.  
  
So when the giggling starts, Jerry doesn't think anything of it. Raising three daughters, it's the kind of sound that washes over him; it's comforting, like bacon sizzling on the frying pan, so Jerry merely smiles and continues to re-stuff envelopes. He, Ben and Leslie are the only ones there; everyone else has either gone home or to work, even Donna, who finally lost the will to watch him work sometime after the sun came up. "A man can only lick so many envelopes in one night, Jerry. You should go home," she'd prodded as she left, advice he's chosen to ignore. His house is too quiet--Gayle's chaperoning their youngest daughter's band trip--and he's hit a groove with this second round of flyers.  
  
It's when the laughter subsides that Jerry first gets the inkling of something odd going on. The house becomes unusually still, hauntingly so, and he pauses, pulling off his glasses and turning his head slightly toward the back of the house. _Maybe they went to bed_ , he thinks, but then he hears Ben, slightly shocked, say, "Good lord, Leslie. Where did you...? Are you _sure_?"  
  
More giggling. This time, though, Jerry has a sudden suspicion that this isn't just innocent laughter. But Ben and Leslie wouldn't...Not when he's still here...  
  
He doesn't even have time to follow the thought to completion when he hears Leslie gasp, "Oh no, Ben! Don't you dare!" There's a shriek, a door opens with enough force that it hits a wall, and seconds later, Leslie tears into the living room clad only in her bra and underwear.  
  
Jerry actually feels the color drain from his face as he averts his eyes. This is possibly the worst predicament he's ever gotten himself into. Worse than faking a mugging in the park. Worse than that time he caught the phantom pooper defecating in the urinal at work and had been too flustered to give a good description. Worse than the time he tripped and fell into his cousin Muriel's wedding cake, effectively destroying the entire thing. Well, maybe it's not worse than that, but at this moment, it feels like it.  
  
He has to get out of here now before this escalates.

Fumbling, he starts to straighten up the table, searching for the glasses he abandoned a few minutes ago. He can't afford to lose another pair, no matter how awkward the situation. It's unfathomable that they're lost (the table is not that messy), but the anxious terror he's feeling is certainly not aiding his search. He can hear Leslie still giggling loudly-- _How does she not see him? He hasn't stacked the boxes that high, has he?_ \--and then another, less frantic set of footsteps entering the room, and Ben saying, "Leslie, you did a terrible thing yesterday."  
  
_Oh, goodness...Glasses. Just find the glasses and get out of here._  
  
"I know," Leslie agrees, laughter and teasing and a strangely false innocence riddling her normal tone of voice. "But I'm so sorry and it'll never happen again. I've learned my lesson."  
  
"I don't think you have."  
  
"Oh no, Ben, I have. Really. You don't have to--"  
  
Leslie shrieks again. He can hear both of them running. The couch springs groan. "Hold still!" Ben grunts, and then Leslie, mostly laughing, says, "No, don't handcuff me, please. I'll be good."  
  
_That's it. Forget the glasses. Just_ go.  
  
Jerry stands up, bumping his knees against the table and knocking a cup of pens over. Instinctively, he looks over at the couch to see if they've noticed, which, of course, is just another in a long line of mistakes he's made. Ben actually does have Leslie pinned down, her hands restrained behind her back; Leslie squirms underneath him as Ben runs his fingertips over her neck, shoulders and back, all the way down to her bottom where he ends his exploration with a firm smack, and yes, okay, this is officially the worst predicament Jerry has ever been in.  
  
He grabs his jacket; out of habit, he pats his back pocket to make sure he has his wallet; then he tiptoes across the room, praying to go undiscovered. Leslie's giggling has transformed into a breathless whimpering, which feels like even more of a violation to overhear, and though she's still pleading with Ben, it sounds much more like begging now.  
  
"Jesus, Les," he hears Ben mutter, his tone also decidedly less playful, "is this really doing it for you? Your panties are soaked."  
  
It's too much. Even the strongest man would break under such torture, and Jerry's not even close to the strongest. Startling at the words, he fails to notice the umbrella lying by the door, and he trips, falling to the floor. For one second, he has hope that Ben and Leslie, both so stubborn and single-minded, are too focused on each other to even notice.  
  
It's a fool's belief. But Jerry has never denied that he's often a fool.

"Hello?" Leslie's voice is quiet now, almost a little frightened, and that, more than anything, gives Jerry the will to get to his feet and turn to face them. Ben is sitting up with his head buried in his hands; Leslie, hands still cuffed behind her back, kneels beside Ben, her eyes huge and anxious. "Jerry?" she says, as though she's doesn't believe he's standing there. Jerry doesn't blame her; he can't quite believe it either. Ben's head snaps up and he looks over, a whole range of emotions that Jerry can't read flitting across his face.  
  
"I'm so sorry, guys," Jerry stutters. "I was trying to finish the envelopes and you came in--"  
  
"You've been here the whole time? But you left. Jerry, you left. You left, Jerry. I saw you leave."  
  
"No, Leslie, I was right there." He points at the table, and wow, he really did stack those boxes high enough that you can't see anything behind them. "Look, I'm really sorry."  
  
"Jerry, do you think you could leave, maybe?" Ben snaps, and _yes_ , Jerry thinks, _that is an excellent idea_.  
  
"Of course. Absolutely. I'm just gonna..." He opens the door and, for some reason he can't explain, salutes them as he leaves. Outside, he leans against the side of the house and takes a deep breath, trying to still the rapid beating of his heart. This kind of stress definitely isn't good for his health.  
  
It takes a few minutes for Jerry to collect himself. Despite the beautiful day--spring is finally, reluctantly arriving--and the cool breeze in the air, Jerry finds it hard not to see (or worse, hear) Ben and Leslie every time he closes his eyes. When he finally clears his head enough that he thinks he can safely drive home, he heads down the walkway toward his car, patting his pants pockets in search of his keys. Then, like being struck by lightning, he remembers.  
  
His keys are in his jacket pocket.  
  
His jacket, which he dropped in the hall when he fell.  
  
His jacket, which he forgot to take with him when he left.  
  
Desperately, Jerry glances back at the house. He shouldn't go back in there. Absolutely not. He can just walk home...  
  
It's only about three miles...  
  
He bites his lip. They're probably not still going, he reasons to himself. Ben looked traumatized when he left, and he's a guy. It's not just something he can overcome in an instant. Probably, he and Leslie have gone back to work and Jerry will walk in to find Leslie in a blazer and Ben in a tie and absolutely nothing untoward or private going on at all.  
  
Decided, Jerry heads back to the front door, faking most of his confidence and still reciting a list of reasons it's perfectly okay for him to go back in the house. He's so caught up, he doesn't even think to knock, and he opens the door and walks in almost cheerfully. "Just forgot my...Oh my goodness"  
  
"Dammit, Jerry!" Ben shouts as Jerry blushes scarlet at the sight Leslie bent over the arm of the couch, Ben pounding her from behind. "Get out of here!"  
  
Jerry complies instantly. On second thought, it really is a lovely day for a walk.  



	6. The Office

  
"Okay," says Leslie, opening her padfolio and ignoring the disinterested looks of everyone around her. "This meeting is going to be very brief."  
  
"You have ten things on this agenda, Leslie. That's the opposite of brief."  
  
"I cut it down from nineteen, Tom.  That’s practically bare bones." Leslie pulls out a stack of papers and leafs through them distractedly, cursing under her breath. "Did anyone print out the list of vendors from last year's Harvest Festival?"  
  
"No." Tom swivels his chair and taps his pen against his knee. "I guess that means we can cross off item one."  
  
Leslie bites her lip, glances to the agenda and then her phone, and lets out a painful whine. "Nooo," she says, but she sounds more like she's trying to convince herself than the rest of them. "I'll just run in and print it off real quick."  
  
"No, Leslie, come on!"  
  
Ignoring the groans from her coworkers, Leslie rushes out of the room toward her office. "You just had to remind her about this meeting, Jerry," says Tom with an accusatory glare. "She was all ready to walk out of here, and you had to open your big mouth."  
  
"I was just trying to help."  
  
"It's lady's night at the Snakehole Lounge. I have hours of prep work ahead of me. Did you ever think of that?"  
  
The phone in the conference room rings, and they all glance at it and then each other before Tom tentatively reaches out and answers the call. "Hello?"  
  
"Tom!" Leslie's voice rings out clearly through the speakerphone, and Donna shakes her head as Tom rolls his eyes. "Can you do me a favor? Look in my padfolio and see if the schedule for fall rec center classes is in there."  
  
"Why don't you just come in here and do it yourself, Leslie?"  
  
"Efficiency! I mean, we all want to get out of here, right?"  
  
This comment earns the phone various looks of disbelief, even from Andy, who up until now has spent the whole meeting doodling on his agenda. "Leslie?" he asks uncertainly.  
  
"What? Am I the only one who enjoys a little down time now? Just look in the damn...Crap. Hang on a second, guys. I'll be right back."

The sharp tone of Leslie hitting a button on the phone rings through the room, and Donna sighs. "What is going on with that girl today?"  
  
"She's finally lost it," offers Tom. "We all knew it was just a matter of time. I always said--"  
  
"Whoa, hang on," Donna says, throwing a hand over Tom's mouth to shut him up. "Do you guys hear that?"  
  
They quiet, and within a few seconds it's clear that Leslie hasn't actually put them on hold. It's also clear that she's no longer talking to them, even if they can still hear her.  
  
"You are punctual," Leslie says, and Tom swivels in his chair to catch a glimpse of Leslie talking on her cell phone. "Seriously?" he asks, and Donna shushes him.  
  
"Is this a bad time?" Donna's eyes widen at the sound of Ben's voice, her delight at this turn of events obvious. Jerry, on the other hand, actually winces. "I know we said six, but it's so early..."  
  
"It's not a bad time. Why would it be a bad time? We said six and it's six and so now is the perfect time, right?"  
  
"Okay...If you're sure."  
  
"Sure I'm sure. Let's do this."  
  
"'Do this?'" echoes Donna softly. "Damn, is she really going there? At work?"  
  
Jerry sighs, rubbing a weary hand across his forehead. "Maybe we should hang up."  
  
"Maybe you should shut up. Don't you dare touch that phone, Jerry."  
  
"I'm just saying, they're probably not even--"  
  
"Okay, so are you touching yourself?" Leslie asks bluntly. Her interruption causes Jerry to actually bury his head in his hands, leaving the others to gawk at the phone.  
  
"Girl does not mess around," says Donna, and Tom nods.  
  
"Wow," says Ben. "We are jumping right in tonight. Okay then."  
  
"Well you have that cocktail party at eight, right? Did that get cancelled? Ooh, Ben, did it get cancelled?"  
  
"No, no, you're right. I guess I'm just..." Ben clears his throat. "I had a dream about you last night."  
  
"Really? I dreamed about you too. We were in a high school production of Fiddler on the Roof and Li'l Sebastian was playing Tevye--"  
  
"No, Leslie...I'm talking about a sex dream--"  
  
"So am I! We ended up having sex on the stage, and my high school nemesis Stan Kiebler was there writing a piece for the school newspaper and we really needed a good review, so you did that thing with your tongue...Anyway, it all ended up being a moot point because he criticized Li'l Sebastian's performance and was run out of town."  
  
_What the hell?_ Tom mouths, throwing his hands in the air and giving Donna an incredulous look.  
  
"Okay," says Ben, to his credit hardly sounding disturbed about the amount of crazy going on in Leslie's subconscious. "What exactly was I doing with my tongue?"

"You _know_." Donna looks over to where Leslie leans back in her chair, grinning and absentmindedly twirling a piece of hair around her finger. It's beyond obvious that Leslie couldn't be any more over the moon for that boy. And, from the sounds of it, vice versa. "For the record, the audience applauded."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"Ben, come on. You know no one is a bigger fan of your tongue fucking me than I am."  
  
Ben lets out a shuddering breath. "Debatable."  
  
"No way."  
  
"I'd say, Leslie, that I'm a pretty big fan of it, too. God, I'd give anything to be there right now with my face buried between your legs. Are you wet, honey? Are you touching yourself?"  
  
"Mmm-hmm," Leslie purrs. Andy turns to look, and Donna smacks him despite the fact that Leslie is not actually masturbating in her office. "What about you, baby? Are you hard? Are you imagining being inside of me? Fucking my tight--"  
  
"What is going on here?" Ron interrupts. He stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, eyeing his coworkers despite the breathy voices still emanating from the phone, and ignoring the near silent groans and gestures that beg him to shut up. Only Jerry looks relieved, lifting his head and immediately spilling the beans.  
  
"Ron, Leslie's on the speakerphone, and I don't think she realizes...Well..." Jerry nods toward the phone from which Leslie is now describing how Ben's cock feels inside of her in great detail.  
  
"It's getting good," says Donna. Ron grunts and leaves the room, crossing through the department to Leslie's office. They all watch as he knocks on the door and listen as Leslie sighs loudly. "Hand on a sec," she says in a more normal tone of voice. "Ron needs something."  
  
"Ron...?" asks Ben, clearly bewildered. "Leslie, are you still at work?"  
  
Leslie doesn't answer, but waves Ron inside. Donna has to resist the urge to move closer and see this in detail. "Leslie."  
  
"Ron, I know everyone's getting impatient. I'll be out in just a minute."  
  
"Knope, are you aware that you're still on the conference phone?"  
  
"What? No...That's imposs--" Leslie glances at her desk phone and her eyes widen and snap up to look over at the conference room. Everyone stares at her, varying degrees of amusement, intrigue and disgust in their eyes. Donna is grinning, and she flashes Leslie a double thumbs up. "Oooh...god..." Leslie moans and drops her head to her palm.  
  
"Not that it's any of my business, but you might want to hang that up."  
  
"Gee, thanks, Ron." Leslie ends the conference call and everyone but Jerry lets out an audible groan.  
  
"That was...disturbing," says Tom. "And weirdly hot. Who knew those two nerds had it in them."  
  
"Hey, those two are wound so tightly they have to release that tension somehow. I just can't believe Leslie did that at work. She must be missing Ben real bad."  
  
"Yeah," says Andy, who has gone back to drawing. "He was supposed to come home with April last weekend and then he couldn't. Leslie was bummed. April said Ben was pretty depressed, too."  
  
"That's why I never do long distance," says Donna, but she shoots a sympathetic glance at Leslie. She's still on the phone, but from the look of it, things have taken a more serious tone. "Maybe we should take her out tonight."  
  
"Ooh, we could go to Jurassic Fork. I have a coupon!"  
  
"Wrong, Jerry. If we're going anywhere it's the Snakehole Lounge. Or possibly The Glitter Factory."  
  
"No," says Andy, standing up and holding one finger in the air. "I have an idea."  



	7. Interlude One

"I still can't believe you're actually here."

Ben turns to press a kiss to Leslie's forehead and she smiles. "Me either," she agrees. Her fingers move lazily up and down, tracing patterns against his chest, and Ben's arm tightens around her back. It's late, closer to morning now, but their friends' impromptu turn at playing cupid was thorough, and thanks to April, Ben is finally taking a day off as well. Even Leslie has to admit that basically being kidnapped from her own meeting to take a red eye to D.C. was exactly what she needed.

And it feels nice, being this still. It's unusual for them, particularly lately when every occasion they're together is made frenzied by weeks apart and the knowledge that their time is fleeting. Leslie hates it, this ephemeral quality to their relationship, but until tonight, she hadn't realized how much she's missed this feeling of being unhurried, methodical and languid.

That forever feeling, she thinks of it privately. The one born the night they reunited in the smallest park, when she knew in every kiss and touch that for the whole rest of her life, she'd never want anyone but Ben. And it's not that she doubts that feeling in their more hurried encounters; it's just harder now. Harder with hundreds of miles between them. Harder when she's in his bed for one or two nights and then gone for three weeks. Harder because the phone and computer are not Ben's arms, his kiss, his touch.

But she definitely feels that tonight, lying in Ben's arms, sated and sleepy and so very much in love.

"So I guess that phone call wasn't that bad after all, was it?" she says, lifting her head to look Ben in the eyes. A bit of incredulous disbelief lingers in his gaze, but mostly he's looking at her like he wants to hold her forever, and that...that is enough to steal her breath away.

"Not all bad," he agrees reluctantly. "But Les, I still don't understand why you didn't just tell me you were still at work."

Leslie bites her lip. "We had a date. I didn't want to break it. We'd barely talked this week and I knew you had that party and I thought the next few nights would be more of the same..." She trails off, feeling a bit like she's making excuses when really it all boils down to... "I just missed you."

"Yeah." Ben sighs the word. "I get it."

"Did you..." Leslie hesitates, suddenly self-conscious despite the fact that the worst was over hours ago. "...you know...Finish?"

"Uh, no. There's something about Ron's voice that's surprisingly a mood killer."

"Sorry. I guess maybe there's a chance I didn't think that through."

"Yeah, well..." Ben smiles, hand trailing down to her hip and brushing a sensitive patch of skin. She squirms against him and hides her head in his neck, grinning broadly. "Who would have guessed. After all, you're so great at being sneaky."

"I _am_ great at being sneaky," she says as Ben rolls her onto her back, settling his weight on top of her and kissing her soundly. She sighs contentedly and wraps her arms around his neck, letting him press his lips over her cheeks, up her temple, across her forehead, until he finally pulls back and smiles down at her. Gently, he threads his fingers through her hair and nods.

"Yeah," he says softly.

God, she loves him _so much_.

"Yeah," she says, running her thumb over his lips and smiling as he kisses it. "It's about time you admitted it, Benjamin."  



	8. Interlude Two

Leslie's dress is already off by the time she and Ben reach her bedroom, one bra strap loose against her upper arm as he kisses across her shoulder. She feels lightheaded, the stress of the night lost in the same exhilaration she's felt since the moment Ben proposed.

It's a little bit ridiculous—this punch-drunk, head-over-heels love she feels for him; a little bit careless and a little bit reckless, but she's laughing as they fall onto her bed together.

"What?" he asks, lips fluttering down her neck. One hand is on her hip, his thumb stroking a patch of skin that he knows drives her wild.

"You do realize that we got to second base in front of a stranger."

She can feel him smile. "Was someone driving that cab?"

God, he's cute.

"I'm just saying," she says, scratching her nails along the back of his neck, "I think I've pinpointed our problem."

"We have a problem?"

"You know." She reaches down to pinch his butt, smiling when he bucks against her. "Our inability to keep our sex life private."

"Oh." He kisses across the swell of her breast, one hand reaching around to work at the clasp of her bra. " _That_ problem."

"Yes," she gasps.

"Okay. And…?"

"Well clearly the problem isn't that we're not sneaky. The problem is that you're irresistible."

"Irresistible, huh?" The quirk of Ben's eyebrow is somewhere between cocky and amused as he lifts his head from her chest, a look that proves her point as much as it makes her want to tear his pants off. She settles for tracing the outline of his brow, running her finger along his temple and down his cheek. "So the fact that we've been caught in compromising positions several times—"

"Is because you're a sexy, tantalizing gazelle whose sumptuous good looks are impossible to resist."

"Right." He leans in to kiss her neck, zeroing in on a spot that makes her squirm. Her hand wanders down his back and slips beneath the waistband of his pants, and really, why is he still wearing these? "Clearly that's the problem."

She fumbles for the fly of his pants. "At the very least, it's a contributing factor."

"Your impatience is a contributing factor," he contradicts, pinning her hand over her head. Annoyed, she lifts her hips toward his, torn between satisfaction and frustration when he groans. He presses his lips to hers, kissing her hard, and when he pulls back, they're both panting.

"Why are we talking about this?" He begins kissing her neck again, sloppier this time; more distracted. "I mean, really, Les, we're moving in together."

"Yes."

"We're getting married."

Her back arches at the words, almost involuntarily, and she wonders if hearing that will ever stop being a turn-on. " _Yes_."

"And we don't have to see my parents again until the wedding. So I think that pretty much solves the problem."

"Does it?"

His eyes are dark as he lifts his head to look at her, and this time when her hands start to work on the zipper of his pants, he doesn't resist. "Think about it, Leslie. No more April and Andy in the next room. No reason for anyone to be in our house when we're having sex. No more long distance, so definitely no chance of phone sex being overheard. I think the problem is solved."

She moans when he kisses her again, pushing at his pants, eager to finally be rid of them. She's too distracted now, too desperate for him, and really, he's right.

It's definitely not going to be a problem anymore.


	9. Burt Macklin

  
Burt Macklin learned the hard way that playing by the rules only gets you so far.  
  
After all, it was playing by the rules that cost his partner his leg; Champion had been the best dog the FBI had before that explosion at the boathouse. If Macklin had just shot the maniac responsible when he had the chance, Champion would still be out in the field. But no. He'd followed protocol—listened to the higher-ups and robbed the best damn agent of his leg.  
  
No, Burt Macklin no longer follows the rules. And if that means he has to steal the keys to the best room in City Hall—no, wait… _FBI_ _headquarters_ —for his own retirement ceremony, so be it.  
  
Consider it one last act of rebellion. One last chance to be the rogue agent he's always known he is.  
  
Of course, it won't be easy. Stealing keys from the FBI director is like stealing candy from a baby with a bionic hand. She's not going to give them up without a fight. This requires stealth. And stealth may not be Macklin's best skill, but he has a secret weapon; one the FBI would never approve of; one that could cost him the Medal of Honor at his retirement ceremony.  
  
It's a risk he has to take.  
  
Macklin approaches the door outside the director's office slowly. The director has been in and out of the building all day, but as he creeps toward the door, he can hear her voice as clear as day. She's talking to her number two, Wyatt—the biggest stickler for the rules that Macklin's ever met.  
  
This might be harder than he thought.  
  
"You know you can't actually set fire to someone's house," Wyatt says. "That's arson."  
  
"It's only arson if they can prove you started it intentionally."  
  
"Leslie…"  
  
"Okay. Fine. No fire. Are you satisfied?"  
  
"Yes—"  
  
"We'll just come up with another plan."  
  
As Wyatt sighs one of those deep, long-suffering sighs he loves so much, Macklin crouches down and looks into the room. Wyatt's got his hands on the director's shoulders, but her arms are crossed; whatever they're arguing about, Macklin knows their distractedness will only aid the plan. Quietly, he bends down and rolls into the room, hiding behind the permit desk and waiting for the signal to make his move.  
  
"You know what the best revenge would be?" Wyatt asks. "If we go hear Reston out. Get his side of the story."  
  
"That doesn't sound like revenge."  
  
"Well…uh, just think about how pissed his coworkers will be if he, um, designs this beautiful park for us."  
  
"You saw the kind of park he wants to build for us, Ben! Would you call that beautiful? Because I'd call it the worst insult in the history of the universe!"  
  
Macklin peers around the desk. It's been awhile since he's heard the director so pissed. It's hard not to jump in and remind her that he's always ready for a good revenge plan, especially if it's retaliation toward someone threatening the FBI. Wyatt may never go for it, but Wyatt doesn't have to know.  
  
 _Damn it, Macklin! Stay on task! You're here for the keys._  
  
"I just think we should hear him out," says Wyatt. "And if he's really behind it, I promise, I will help you get revenge."  
  
The director looks slightly hopeful. "Really?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
The director takes a step toward Wyatt, one hand grasping a fistful of his shirt and pulling him closer. "What kind of revenge?"  
  
"Um…Maybe we could, um, get him to pour salt in his iced tea instead of sugar. Then his iced tea would be too disgusting to drink."  
  
"Or we could cut the brakes on his car."  
  
"What? I don't—"  
  
Wyatt doesn't even have time to form the protest before the director kisses him. It's pretty gross. There's a lot of tongue involved, which is more than Macklin wants to see, but when the director backs Wyatt into a nearby wall, he has an uninhibited view.  
  
And the director definitely has one hand down Wyatt's pants.  
  
"It is so hot when you talk about vengeance," the director mutters. Her hand moves, and Wyatt groans. It's a terrible idea, Macklin thinks—the director and her number two in an illicit relationship. But who is he to judge?  
  
After all, he's in love with a criminal mastermind.  
  
The director pulls her hand out of Wyatt's pants and starts to undo his belt, and Wyatt finally seems to come to his senses. He pulls back, his hands gently cupping the director's face. "We can't do this here."  
  
"Sure we can. No one is around. We'll use Jerry's desk."  
  
Macklin tries not to laugh.  
  
"Les…"  
  
"Come on, Ben." Her hands, which paused when Wyatt pulled back, start to work at undoing his pants again. She leans up and starts kissing his neck. "What else are you going to do to get back at Reston?"  
  
Wyatt leans back, his head hitting the wall as the director gets his pants open and slips her hand in to start stroking him. "Oh god—We could, uh, put sugar in his gas tank."  
  
"I love that all of your revenge ideas involve sugar."  
  
Wyatt moans as the director begins to move her hand faster. Macklin can't deny it—the director definitely has some skills in this arena. It's only a little surprising. After all, the director is pretty amazing at everything. Apparently even sex stuff.  
  
"What if we wrote something mean on his car with whipped cream?"  
  
This time the director moans, pushing up on her tiptoes and kissing Wyatt hard on the mouth. They're both breathing pretty heavily now, and Macklin's starting to think they're not even going to have time to defile Jerry's desk, which is a shame. Jerry's the worst agent in this place. It would be—  
  
"Ew, god!"  
  
Wyatt and the director jump apart as Macklin whips his head back toward the door, shocked by the sudden interruption of his criminal mastermind girlfriend. This isn't the plan they agreed upon, damn it! He's supposed to be the distraction and she's the stealth. And now—  
  
"Andy?"  
  
Andy glances up at Leslie, who, despite being a little disheveled, is definitely better off than Ben. "Hey Leslie." He stands up and looks over at Ben, who has turned toward the wall and leans against it like he's trying to hide. "Hey Ben."  
  
April steps into the room and grabs his hand, dragging him toward the door. "God," she grumbles, "isn't it bad enough you guys do that stuff at home?"  
  
She tugs at his hand again, clearly ready to leave, but Andy pauses for a second. "Hey, you guys know what would be an awesome revenge? Put syrup in his shampoo bottle."  



	10. Tom

"Wait! Would it make a difference if I told you your eyes sparkle like Beyonce's?"

The door slams, and Tom winces. "I'll take that as a no."

It's totally unfair. After all the work Tom had to do to convince Donna to throw this party, including his promises to supply the alcohol and not invite Jean-Ralphio, the universe basically owes him. It's in the laws of nature of something—You throw an awesome party, you get laid.

Or at least you get to make out with the hot girl in your friend's basement. Especially on New Year's Eve, the one holiday where someone is pretty much required to kiss you.

Tom leans back against the wall and downs the rest of the drink in his hand, but it doesn't feel like quite the shot of perseverance he needs. It's fifteen minutes until midnight, he just struck out for the sixth time tonight, and Ann already made it clear that kissing him for old time's sake is out of the question. At this point, his best bet is sneaking back upstairs and standing next to the prettiest girl he can find without a date when the clock strikes twelve. It's had about a 50-50 rate of success in the past.

He's just about talked himself into it, confidence boosted at least back to resigned optimism, when he hears it. It's quiet, a sound so nearly imperceptible that he could write it off without much thought, but then he hears it again. Long and low, almost like someone groaning in pain.

He frowns. Looks around the room. Nothing.

Great. Now in addition to a crappy New Year's, he's going crazy.

He definitely needs to find someone to kiss.

Instinctively, he glances around the room one last time as he heads toward the stairs. And it's at the last second, out of the corner of his eye, that he notices that the door leading to Donna's garage is ajar.

Weird.

The light is on, too.

Weirder.

He can't help it. His curiosity gets the better of him, and he crosses the room to the garage and pokes his head in.

The source of the sound is immediately apparent.

Someone is doing it in Donna's Benz.

What the hell? Someone is doing it in Donna's Benz and it's not him?

Wait.

_Someone is doing it in Donna's Benz!_

Holy fuck.

Tom's fingers itch to get out his phone and Instagram this moment, but he's not so certain he wouldn't be included in the bloodshed. He's the one who convinced Donna to have this party, after all. But he'll be damned if he's going to pass up this opportunity.

He inches closer to the car, not quite sure that he has an actual plan, but certain that he's not leaving until he knows who has the stones to have sex in Donna's Benz.

It's shockingly not much like a porno. The windows aren't as foggy as he expects, but the lighting is terrible, and when he first glances in, it's hard to make out what's going on. There's definitely two people having sex; even from out here, he can hear them, pants and groans muffled but unmistakable. As his eyes adjust to what he's seeing, he realizes that the dude is on top, nearly smothering the woman with his body. They're as intertwined as two people can be: her legs hitched around his back, his face buried her neck, her hands unable to stay still as they move from his neck down his back to his ass. There's nothing gentle about their fucking—it's rough and hard and clearly charged by desperation—but they're so wrapped up in one another, so completely oblivious to the fact that they've been caught, it's strangely intimate as well.

The woman scratches her nails up the man's back and he groans, the movement of his hips becoming hurried and erratic. His lips move from her neck, across her collar bone and down toward her breasts, and then he lifts his head and kisses her, hard. And when he pulls back from her, hitching her hips higher so he can fuck her deeper, Tom can finally see their faces.

What. The. Hell.

Tom's pretty sure his brain implodes as it realizes what it's seeing. It's the only explanation for how he doesn't immediately scream at the sight of Ben and Leslie fucking in the backseat of Donna's Mercedes. For a minute, he stands still, certain he's hallucinating or dreaming or something, because there is no way this is happening.

No way that Ben is fucking Leslie like there's no tomorrow.

No way that that's Leslie, back arched and breasts heaving, her hand slipping down between her legs to rub her clit.

No fucking way that these two are having incredibly hot sex in the back of a luxury car.

Except that they totally are.

And finally, his brain catches up to what he's seeing.

"Oh my god!" he shouts, jumping away from the car. It's too late, of course. The image of them fucking is probably burned into his brain forever. It will take a lobotomy to make him forget this. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!"

There's a shriek from inside the car, and definitely not the good, orgasmic kind. There's a long moment, punctuated by a string of curse words from the car, and Tom stares, wide-eyed, when the door finally opens. Leslie looks furious. Her pants are back on, but except for her bra, she's still topless; next to her, Ben is still struggling to get back into his pants.

"Oh my god!" he says again.

"What the hell are you doing?" Leslie shouts. "Tom!"

"You?" He blinks and shakes his head. "Seriously. You and _Ben_? What the hell!"

"I don't know what you thought you saw—"

"I _saw_ you and your nerdy boyfriend fucking in the back of Donna's Benz!" Holy shit. This is really happening. "Damn! Do you two have a death wish?"

"Tom!"

"In a million years, I never would have guessed that you two would have the balls to do it in Donna's Mercedes! Seriously!"

A shoe flies at his head, and Tom ducks just in time to avoid having his skull penetrated by Leslie's heel. He's too delighted to care. This is beyond perfect. Never mind the lifetime of nightmares—He has enough dirt on these two to more than make up for it. "Let's be real,'" he says. "We've all thought about it. But I didn't think anyone, least of all you two, would be able to pull this off."

"Tom, if you don't leave right now—"

"What's it like? Did you use the heated seats? Was it plush? Did you get off on the danger?"

"That's it!"

Tom's eyes widen as Leslie dives out of the car, hitting him square in the chest and knocking them both to the ground. She pins his arms above his head before he can even register what happened, and it takes everything in his power not to stare at her bra.

"Listen to me," says Leslie, pressing her knees into his ribcage. He whines in pain, but she doesn't seem to care. "You're going to forget what you just saw. It never happened. You didn't see anything."

"Okay!"

"And you're not going to mention it to anyone. Ever."

"Okay! Okay, I promise! Let me up!"

Leslie looks at him hard for a moment before she relents, standing up and crossing her arms. He leaps to his feet, desperately trying to look at the back of his sweater to make sure it isn't ripped or stained.

"You owe me a new sweater," he demands. God, he needs a mirror. Like now.

"Tom!"

"Fine!" he relents, glaring at her. She only looks mildly furious. "You pay the dry cleaning bill and we'll call it even."

This time the shoe Ben throws hits him square in the chest.


	11. Ann (and Chris)

Ann pushes Chris' back into a door, her hands tugging at his shirt, fingernails scraping just under the waistband of his pants, desperate to come in contact with any skin she can. He's kissing her as fervently as she needs him to: hot and willing and eager as fuck, and it's enough to push any thought of how inappropriate this is right out of her mind. She can already feel him, pressing insistently against her stomach, and his arms wrap around her back, pulling her closer, close enough that she can feel every inch of his body against hers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It has been much too long since she's felt like this. Totally absorbed, totally lost, totally consumed by a man.

By _Chris_.

She can't help herself. It's the only explanation. The only possible reason that she has him pinned against April and Andy's bedroom door, ready to do unspeakable things to him with a party raging in the background.

Chris' hands slip from her waist to her ass, his thigh slipping between her legs with just the right amount of pressure, and _holy fuck_ , if she doesn't get him naked and inside of her _now_ , she's going to die.

She fumbles for the door handle, groaning as Chris suddenly turns her around. He slams her against the door, hard, but Ann doesn't even register the pain. She pulls back from his kiss, still trying to open the door, but his lips move that spot on her neck and she can't concentrate on anything but the way every nerve in her body feels electrified under his touch.

It's Chris who finally manages to open the door, and they nearly fall into the room.

It's a mess (of course it is), and the bed is unmade, and Ann really doesn't want to think about the things April and Andy do in here, so she doesn't. She just kicks the door shut and stumbles toward the bed, hands tearing at Chris' pants in an effort to get him naked. He takes over just as she gets the belt undone, and Ann goes for her own clothes, pulling her sun-dress up and over her head, and then practically clawing at the clasp on her bra.

Chris, who has always had a knack for getting naked in record time, moves to pull down her underwear, but before he can, Ann shoves him back onto the bed and crawls on top of him.

"This is crazy," she breathes just before she kisses him. Her right hand slides down his torso to his dick, and she strokes him, her thumb running along the head of his cock. He pulls back, groaning, and Ann presses her legs together in an attempt to feel some friction.

"Remind me again why we stopped doing this?" pants Chris.

"Because you're an idiot."

Chris nods, leaning up and capturing her lips again—one, two, three, four quick kisses. "The biggest idiot."

They continue to make out, Ann's hand moving somewhat distractedly; not that Chris seems to notice that her own arousal is preventing her from giving this hand-job one hundred percent of her attention. It's easier this time: easier to get caught up in how she feels, in her own pleasure, in not worrying so much if she's meeting some expectation Chris may or may not have.

They're on equal footing now, and Ann's not sure she's ever felt so comfortable in her own skin during sex.

Eventually, she pulls back, sitting up and grinning as she finally gives him her full attention. He's fully aroused, and she's more than ready, but she can't help drawing this out, teasing him just past the point of pleasure.

"Fuck," he hisses. He reaches for her, but she stays out of his grasp, and his hands fall to her thighs, fingers pressing into her skin. His eyes meet hers, dark and desperate, and fuck, she needs him inside her. Now.

But that's not what happens.

The thought no sooner runs through Ann's head than they're interrupted. A clatter, something that sounds like an avalanche of boxes, draws her attention, and her hand stops, her heart suddenly beating a mile a minute for reasons that have nothing to do with Chris. Anxiously, she cranes her neck toward the closet, and at the sound of a second, decidedly noisy thump, and she draws the sheet around her shoulders. Chris, either deaf or dumb, sits up and begins kissing her neck again as if nothing is happening. Annoyed, she pushes him back on the bed.

"Didn't you hear that?" she mutters. She tugs the sheet around herself more tightly and scoots off the bed. "Someone is in the closet!"

"I know," says Chris, reaching out and cupping her elbow. When she doesn't respond to his touch, his brow furrows. "Wait, does that bother you?"

"Yes, it bothers me!" She steps away from him, drawing the sheet up as she goes so her feet don't get tangled. "Whoever is in there can see everything out here through the slats in the door!"

Chris blinks. There's confusion etched in his face, but Ann is pretty sure it doesn't stem from lack of comprehension. Of course Chris doesn't care about voyeurism. He was in a nude production of _Cats_ , for gods sakes.

"It could be Orin," she says, voice rising a bit in exasperation. "It could be Jean-Ralphio. Oh god. It could be Jean-Ralphio taping this on his phone." And before Chris can say anything else, she turns and stomps toward the closet door, more than ready to berate whatever pervert is in there. She can hear the heavy breathing, another louder thump, a moan—

She freezes.

It's not one just one pervert in the closet.

It's two.

And they are definitely having sex.

It's like a bucket of cold water has been thrown on her, quelling the overwhelming desire she felt just minutes before; the effect is immediate and unwelcome, and she cringes, more than ready to find her clothes and make a beeline to the door. Before she can so much as turn, though, Chris is up and at her side.

"Excuse me!" He taps on the closet door, as one might when politely inquiring if a bathroom is free, and tips his head to the side. Desperately, Ann reaches up and grabs his forearm, tugging at him, but Chris is planted firmly on two feet. He smiles at her, as though this is not at all horrifying. As though he's not interrupting two people in the middle of having sex who _interrupted them_ in the middle of having sex.

Ugh.

There's more noise from the closet, and Chris shakes his head. Without warning, he reaches for the handles on the doors and pulls them open. Ann flinches, averting her eyes just far enough to the right to realize that Chris is still stark naked.

"Ben! Leslie!"

Without thinking, Ann jolts, eyes flying from Chris' bare ass back to the closet, only to get an eyeful of her best friend and her husband. They're both sweaty and disheveled, clothes partially removed and askew, and even in the dim light of the closet, Ann can make out the distinct scratches across Ben's back where Leslie's nails have been. Leslie's legs are wrapped tightly around Ben's waist, feet pressing against his ass, her body pinned between her husband and the wall, and Ben's _very clearly_ still inside of her, and still it takes Ann a full thirty seconds to comprehend what she's seeing.

Her eyes catch Leslie's, just for a second—just long enough to register Leslie's half-apologetic, half-unrepentant expression—and then Ann drops her head, pressing her forehead to her hand.

"Well this is unexpected!" says Chris, like they've just bumped into their friends at the grocery store or something rather than _having sex in a closet_.

"Chris, do you mind?" asks Ben. Ann struggles not to roll her eyes at the annoyed undertone in Ben's words, as though he and Leslie are the wronged party in this situation. "Can you, uh, give us a second?"

"Absolutely!"

"And maybe put on some pants?"

_God, yes_ , she thinks. This situation is awkward enough without Chris walking around proud as a peacock, his very obvious erection apparently unperturbed by these events, and yeah, Ann definitely does not want to think about what that means. If the words _let's take this foursome up into the stratosphere_ come out of his mouth, she's moving to Taiwan.

Ann turns and goes back to the bed, sitting on the edge as Chris tugs on his boxer-briefs, definitely not watching as Ben and Leslie try to make themselves presentable. This has got to be one of the most mortifying situations she's been in. And that includes the time she and Andy tried to make a sex tape.

"Ann," says Leslie. Her hand touches Ann's shoulder, and Ann looks up, eyes flitting over Leslie's face, still flushed, her hair mussed from where Ben's hands must have run through it. Vaguely, it occurs to Ann that she probably looks equally disheveled, and she's suddenly reminded all over again that she and her boyfriend and her best friend and her husband were all having sex in the same room at the same time.

"We were— _you know_ —And then we heard someone—you—in the hallway, and we panicked, and then you came in and you were—And Ben and I were—"

Ann shakes her head as Leslie continues to babble a mile a minute. She's only half-listening.

She already has a pretty clear idea of how this happened.

"—and really there's _no reason_ to be ashamed," Leslie rambles. "I mean, look at you two—"

"Okay!" interrupts Ben. He steps toward Leslie, setting his hands on her shoulders, but Ann can't quite bring herself to look him in the eye yet. "I think we should go."

"Ann?"

The way Leslie says her name (the same way she always says it when she's worried), is enough to make her smile. Or at least for her mouth to twitch up in the corners for just a second. Instantly, Leslie's face softens with relief.

"Right," says Leslie. "Yep. Let's get out of here. And you two, you know, can go back to making a baby. Or whatever."

Ann groans.


End file.
